The French Dog
by Gingehfish
Summary: Javert doesn't want anything to do with the police exchange program between Tortall and France. Unfortunately, his superiors have other plans. ONESHOT. Co-written with Buffintruda.


**I apologize a ton for not updating the last three weeks, but my life suddenly got super busy and I was unable to finish writing the following story until recently. I swear I'll update this week though!**

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**Co-written with an RL friend. Thanks for your help, Buffintruda! :D**

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**I know that Tortall and France aren't on the same planet, maybe not even the same universe, buuuut... this was just begging to be written. :3 Let's say that France is stuck right in between Tortall and Scanra and shove reality in a corner. XD**

**This takes place a few years after Mastiff for Beka, and in between when Valjean escaped with Cosette to the convent and the rebellion for Javert.**

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**Disclaimer: If we get anything about France horribly wrong, we apologize. We are not actually French.**

**Likewise, the French phrases used by Javert were all from Google Translate, so they won't be super accurate... I tried to keep it to the minimum, but it wouldn't be realistic for Javert to not accidentally slip into French a few times.**

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**The French Dog**

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_Point of view of Inspector Javert of Paris, France._

Javert did not want anything to do with this "exchange program" proposed by the Tortallan monarchs.

An educational program, the eager messenger had said in very bad French. It was to be between a few of the Provost's Guards of Tortall and a few of the policemen of France. The messenger said the king agreed with this idea, as a cultural exchange. He had sent more messengers to the Tortallan king and queen to discuss the details. Javert, when he heard about this, did little more than sigh slightly in exasperation, but never did he think that _he_ would be chosen to participate in this silly exchange.

He even said as much to himself while carting off some lawbreakers to prison. His colleague overheard him and laughed at him—

"With that attitude and your luck, Javert, you _will_ be chosen!"

"Don't tempt fate," Javert snapped back, fingering his nightstick and glaring at one of the sobbing peasants, a petty street thief. He thought little more on the subject; it was ridiculous and would undoubtedly fall through. Even if it didn't, the odds were miniscule that he would be selected to take part in the program.

* * *

Javert stared in blank shock at the slip of paper in front of him.

_Inspector Javert, _it read,

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to participate in the police exchange program between France and Tortall. You, along with two hundred others, are to be transported to Tortall, where you will spend one month learning about Tortallan culture and police work. You have been recommended by your superiors for this exchange, and you are required to arrive at your local Police office by 9:00, April 17th. Your presence is required and failure to report will cause immediate suspension. Uniforms, money and any other items of necessity will be provided. Travel cost will be covered. In the meantime, we recommend that you brush up on your Common, as you will be speaking the native language of Tortall during your stay._

_Many thanks,_

And then followed the illegible scribble that was the signature of whoever had written the note.

Javert was confused, and not a little bit angry at his selection. He had been recommended by his superiors? Why him, of all the Inspectors in his district? He wanted to stay in Paris, where he belonged, not adventuring in another country, participating in a silly exchange program! So many criminals—murderers, thieves, all manner of sinners and evildoers—would escape his grasp if he left now.

Then again, he would be catching the Tortallan kin of those same evildoers... Well, as long as he wasn't idle, Javert would be happy. Well, you know—_content_. He hadn't been happy since... he couldn't remember.

Grumbling, Javert got to his feet and began to pack his things for his trip to Tortall.

* * *

Two weeks later, Javert arrived at the police house with all of his thing packed, wearing a newly cleaned uniform and hat. One other officer sat with a sullen expression in a corner, a stuffed bag at his feet. Everyone else was readying for the days work.

A fat bald man with a scruffy beard jogged up to them, panting.

"Ah, you must be Monsieurs Javert and Ramel!" the man said. "Come, take your things and follow me. We must be off."

The man led Javert and the other officer, Ramel, to a carriage outside the police house. The three men got themselves comfortable in the carriage, and the fat man shook the reins, driving the horse forward.

After a few minutes of silence, the fat man said, "I am Monsieur Prieur, secretary to the French Ambassador to Tortall. I will be riding with you to Perpignan, where we will meet with the other officers participating in the exchange program."

Javert grunted to show he was paying attention. The other man, Ramel, said in a quiet voice, "How long to Perpignan?"

"Two and a half days," Prieur replied. "From there you will travel to Tortall with a larger group."

"I see," Ramel said.

Javert payed little attention as Ramel and Prieur talked. He was internally fuming about how many criminals he was not imprisoning while he wasted his time on this silly exchange program.

The ride was long and boring, and soon Javert had drifted into a light sleep; he had not slept well the previous night.

He woke intermittently throughout the day, writing reports for when he returned to Paris, eating, talking to Ramel and Prieur when they noticed he was awake, then sleeping again. He was well rested by the time the sun had set and the carriage stopped at an inn for the night.

He did not sleep that night until past one of the clock, but he felt awake when the sun rose the following day and the carriage set out again for Perpignan.

The process repeated itself for the next day, and half of the one after that. At last, the three men reached Perpignan, one of the most southernmost cities in France.

There, they split off into groups ranging in size from as little as six to as many as twenty. Each group would travel from Perpignan to a major city in Tortall. Javert was paired with one of the larger groups, heading to Tortall's capital, Corus.

After another eight days of uneventful carriage rides, they finally arrived in the city. Javert was directed to the Provost's House, where he and the rest of the Frenchmen would meet the Lord Provost of Tortall, chief of all the Provost's Guard in the country. When they arrived, the Lord Provost was waiting for him in his meeting hall, along with a few servants.

He cleared his throat and began. "Hello, I am Lord Gershom of Haryse. Welcome to Tortall, and thank you all for coming. I hope that this will be a great learning experience for all of us and that after this is over, we will gain lots of new knowledge."

The Lord Provost looked a little distracted, as if he had more important things to worry about, but was being courteous, and had to greet them. While his tone was warm and welcoming, his words sounded rehearsed and slightly empty.

"I am truly glad that we were given this wonderful opportunity to learn more about each other's cultures and improve our skills in protecting our laws."

Javert tried to stifled his irritation. It wasn't like he'd _wanted_ to be here. His techniques worked well enough, and the time wasted traveling here and back definitely wasn't worth it. What could the Tortallans teach him that was really useful?

"My secretary, Master Derton, will assign you to the various districts and watches of Corus. He will give you details on your position among the Provost's Guard. Thank you once again for coming here, and I, along with the rest of Tortall, wish you a happy stay."

The tall Tortallan man waved his leave of the Frenchmen and walked out of the room to the unenthusiastic applause of the crowd. Then a skinny, weedy man hurried up to the stand the Lord Provost had stood on while speaking, and said in a thin, reedy voice,

"I am Master Derton, and I will be giving you your assignments in Corus. Please come forward when your name is called." He cleared his throat, then called out, "Master Collot!"

A man of middling height and a robust chest worked his way through the crowd and up to meet Master Danton. The secretary handed him a slip of paper and gave him instructions of where he was to lodge, what district he was assigned to, what watch he would be taking, and who his partner would be. Collot had been assigned to Unicorn District, Night Watch, and a partner named Porter. Apparently, those words meant as little to the other Frenchman as they did to Javert, who had not bothered to study much about Tortall.

Derton read off a long list of names, and Javert waited semi-patiently for his to be called.

After about fifteen minutes, the weedy man said, "Master Javert!"

Javert ground his teeth. Did they not know his proper rank to be _Inspector_? Or _Monsieur_ at the very least. These Tortallans and their strange words. As Common was the most widely used language in the Eastern Lands, every educated Frenchman, including the police, learned how to speak it a little. Javert had gone more in depth in the language than most, as he had, a few years previously, been employed to locate and arrest a Gallan merchant who spoke minimal French. He had been forced to learn Common quite well, and had only needed to brush up a little bit on the language when he learned of his selection for this silly exchange program. Still, he would think that they would take care to learn some of the customs of France.

He slipped in between the remaining Frenchmen milling about below and walked up to Derton. The man, somehow, looked even frailer and more nervous up close.

"Master Javert, you are assigned to the Lower City District, Jane Street Kennel, Evening Watch." Derton handed him a piece of paper. "Your lodgings will be at Nipcopper Close, number twenty-four, room two. Your partner will be Guardswoman Rebakah Cooper."

Javert frowned. Jane Street... kennel? How strange. He had heard something about the Tortallan Provost's Guard being called the "Dogs", but surely that was just a nickname given to them by others, not themselves?

Derton handed him a slip of paper with the information on it and sent him out of the room. Grumbling, Javert followed. A footman led him to the door of the great house, where he was met by a carriage driver in his carriage.

"Where to?" the man said in Common.

"Nipcopper Close, Lower City," Javert replied, conscious of his heavy accent.

"Get in."

The ride was short: the Provost's House was not far from the Lower City, and Nipcopper Close was not in the heart of the district. When he reached his stop, Javert gave the driver a few of the local coins and climbed out.

Nipcopper Close was a nicer lane than most in the Lower City. It was evidently the poorest of Corus's police districts, but the 'higher powers' in Tortall had evidently chosen to lodge him in a mildly respectable place.

He walked up the lane to number twenty-four. It was midday. Hopefully the landlord would be waiting for him.

He knocked on the door. A plump woman opened it a few seconds later.

"Hello, hello!" she said, sounding surprised. "I am Mistress Trout, I keep three houses on this lane... how may I help you?"

"_Bonjour, Madame._ I am Inspector Javert. I am part of the French-Tortallan police exchange program. My orders are that I am to lodge here in room two," he said stiffly.

The woman, Trout, clapped her hands together. "Oh, but I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow! Please, come in, sir."

She showed him in the door and told him to follow her room two. When they arrived, she gave him some advice for touring Corus, where the best eating houses were and such, then left. Javert scowled at her retreating back and closed the door.

Room two was small, evidently meant for only one person, but it would be big enough for him. Javert put down his case of things at the foot of the bed and sighed, reading the paper that the Lord Provost's secretary had given him.

_Master __Javert__,_

_Thank you for participating in the Tortallan-French police exchange program. It will be a valuable exchange in knowledge for everyone involved. Your time and effort will be well worth it._

_Master __Javert__, your lodgings for your month long stay in __Corus__ will be on __Nipcopper Close__. House number: __24__. Room number: __2__._

_Your district assignment will be to __the Lower City__. Guardhouse: __Jane Street__. Watch: __Evening__. Partner: __Guardswoman Rebakah Cooper__._

_Your watch will run from April 29 through May 29. Watch times: __5:00pm__ through __1:00am__._

_Thank you again for your cooperation and participation._

"Very personal," Javert muttered sarcastically. He sighed. Javert was getting very tired of people welcoming him to Tortall with their empty words, saying how _happy_ they were to have these _wonderful_ opportunities to learn _so_ much. If he had any choice, he wouldn't be here.

And, unless he was mistaken, today was the twenty-eighth of April. Tomorrow, he would report to the Jane Street Guardhouse.

He shrugged, resigned to his fate. It was only one month. He would survive. But he missed the familiar streets of Paris already...

* * *

_Point of view of Guardswoman Rebakah Cooper, Evening Watch, Jane Street Guardhouse, Lower City, Corus, Tortall._

Beka walked down the street toward Jane Street Kennel, her baton in hand. The day was the twenty-ninth of April, and it was a sunny one. Spring in Corus was usually rainy and miserable, but this year the winter had been very cold, and it seemed nature was making up for the snow by giving the city a warm spring.

She was very glad she was no longer required to meet early at the kennel for exercises with the Puppies and leather badge, though she still got plenty of practice on the streets. Usually, a sunny day like today would put her in a good mood, but today was different than most days. Today she would meet her temporary partner.

Her regular partner, Ersken Westover, left for France a little over a week ago, because of that exchange program. It wasn't that Beka hated the idea—it was good to learn about other tactics—but in practice, it didn't work so well. Beka would be partnerless for the total of three weeks that it took Ersken to get there and back and for one month, she would have a foreign partner. What if she didn't get along with the French Dog? Or whatever the French called their law keepers.

Beka walked into the kennel for muster, scowling a little. The other Dogs greeted her with a slap on the back or a nod. She smiled at her friends, nodded to the others, and made her way through the crowd of Dogs to Goodwin's desk.

"Has my new partner come yet, Goodwin?" she asked her desk sergeant.

"He should be here soon," the shorter woman replied. "The French delegation arrived yesterday, and Mistress Trout sent word that he arrived at his lodgings."

"Mistress Trout?" Beka asked in surprise. "She used to be my landlady."

"Aye. Gershom asked me for a reliable lodging house for our French Dog here in the Lower City, and she was the first to come to mind."

Beka shrugged. She wondered if the French Dog was living in her old rooms in Mistress Trout's lodgings, then immediately forgot as her mind moved to other things.

"Beka, lass, come here!"

That was Nyler Jewel's voice. He and his partner, Yoav, were standing aside and talking to Corporal Greengage and his partner, Thomsen.

Beka walked over to the old man. She was faintly surprised every time she saw him that he wasn't dead, or at the very least retired. At the age of nearly seventy, he was still fit, smart, and experienced. She knew he loved the work, and would never leave until he died, but it was still a shock to see such an old man in a Dog's uniform.

Yoav was much younger than her partner, darker-skinned, dark-eyed, and dark-haired. She cut her hair short, like most women Dogs, but not so short as Goodwin's. Beside her was Greengage, tall, burly, and whiskered. Thomsen was short and weedy, but he was had a strong baton arm and a knack for knowing which bribes were worth taking and which were not. He had been in the Puppy class directly after Beka's, though he was a year or two older than her.

"Jewel," she greeted the old Dog.

"Beka, nice to see you on a fine day as today," Jewel replied. "Are you looking forward to meeting this French cove?"

Beka scowled and shook her head. "I wish Ersken was back here. Three weeks partnerless isn't worth a month of foreign help."

That made Jewel let out a short bark of laughter. Greengage and Yoav chuckled too, but Thomsen only gave her a faint smile.

"Happy Bag's today, i'n't it?" the skinny man asked the general group.

"Aye," Yoav replied. "We're off to the Court of the Rogue, unless Goodwin switches things up like last week."

"Knowing her, she will," Greengage said, a joke in his voice. "Been switching things up ever since she got the post!"

That made everyone laugh, because it was true. Goodwin hadn't changed much of import, but she'd sure messed with a lot of little details.

At last, Goodwin called out official muster. Pairs lined up, and Beka was once again left alone. Some nights since Ersken had left for France she'd wandered the streets on her own, most nights she'd been paired with another pair.

Where was that French Dog? He must know that muster was at five, and he needed to be there early...

Goodwin stood up from her desk and called out, "All right. Tonight's the Happy Bag. Pairs won't be walking the same streets as last week. Here's the list. Greengage and Thomsen, you're on Feasting. Wulfric and Lee, you're on Spindle Lane. Jewel and Yoav..."

And on and on she went. Beka waited for her name to be called while staring at the ceiling and wishing that French Dog would just show up already.

At last, there was shuffling at the entrance of the kennel. Goodwin paused in her readings just as she was calling out, "Cooper and—"

A man walked into the kennel. He was of middling height and had a fairly wolfish look about him. A short beard and mustache adorned his lined face, and he had a stern, unforgiving glare. His eyebrows were thick and looked as if they were constantly furrowed. His hair was brown grizzled with gray. He was outfitted in a Dog's uniform, but looked ill at ease in his clothes. Additionally, he wore a ridiculous-looking triangular cap like an upside down boat.

His gaze roamed the room and his mouth tightened slightly. Evidently, he did not like what he saw. Beka thought she knew who this man was: her new partner. The French Dog.

He walked up to Goodwin's desk and bowed slightly to her like a courtier. Beka heard a few stifled giggles behind her. He certainly was making a fool of himself.

"_Bonjour, Madame_," he said in French. "I am Inspector Javert of Paris, France."

_Inspector?_ Beka thought. _What an odd title._

"I received orders to arrive at the Jane Street Guardhouse today. I am here as part of the police exchange program."

He had a thick French accent, but at least he could speak Common. That would be a relief.

Goodwin cleared her throat and said, "Yes, hello, Javert. Thanks for joining us here in the Lower City and all. Your partner for your stay will be Guardswoman Beka Cooper." She motioned for Beka to step out of line to greet the man, Javert.

"Welcome to Corus," Beka said. "I guess we'll be working together for a while."

Javert nodded stiffly back at her. Beka tried not to let her disappointment show on her face. She could already tell that he would be one of those uptight Dogs who followed the law to the letter and didn't care at all for the people. Beka was normally pretty good at reading people, but this time, she hoped that she was wrong. If not, it would make a very miserable month.

Beka fell back into line, trying to ignore the stares the other Dogs were giving her. Most of them were pitying, and she couldn't really blame them.

Javert uneasily stepped beside her. She could sense just how out-of-place he felt: the foreigner, the upright officer, probably born from wealthy parents. He stood beside locals, loose Dogs (well, looser than _him_), and the scum of the street.

"Anyway..." Goodwin began. "Cooper and Javert, you've got the Court of the Rogue this week. Otterkin and Ahern..."

There were only a few more names left. Soon the Evening Watch Dogs were dismissed for their watch. The lawkeepers of the Lower City trickled out of the kennel until only Goodwin, Beka, and Javert were left. Goodwin sat down at her desk and picked up some reports to read.

"So. Today's the Happy Bag day," Beka began. "We're assigned to the Court of the Rogue."

"Excuse me, Madame, but I do not know what you are speaking of," Javert said curtly. "And... if I would be so rude to ask, but why are you working as a police? Surely you would be better suited to other trades?"

Beka scowled. He must be one of those Gentle Mother believers. "No, I think I'm best suited as a Dog. Even the king agrees." She didn't normally throw His Majesty's name around to impress people, but she had a feeling that only this would shut Javert up on _that_ subject.

The Frenchman blinked in surprise, and said nothing more for a few heartbeats. Then he repeated his previous question: "What did you speak of before?"

"Oh, the Happy Bag and the Court of the Rogue?" Beka said in slight surprise. "Well—"

There was a slight cough from behind them. Beka turned to see Goodwin staring at her pointedly. "Shouldn't you be on watch, Cooper? The Rogue's expecting you."

"Oh—yes. Follow me," she said to Javert. "I'll explain on the way. Wait—you have a baton?"

"A nightstick," Javert replied, taking what definitely looked like a baton out of his belt loop.

"That'll do," Beka said. Then she added as they began to walk out of the kennel, fighting back a giggle, "You might want to take that hat off. You may be wearing a Dog's uniform, but the gixies and lads'll know you as fresh meat if you're wearing something as silly as that."

He scowled at her, but took off his hat and tucked it into a corner at the entrance of the kennel. To tell the truth, his bearing and strange look would mark him as fresh meat anyway, but at least Beka wouldn't be mocked for patrolling with a man in a hat like that.

They walked down the streets toward Nipcopper, where the Dancing Dove was located. Beka began to explain Tortallan Dog custom to the foreigner—that was the whole point of the exchange program, after all.

"Y'see, the Happy Bag is the bag of bribes we collect," she began. "Those bribes come mostly from merchants who want extra watch on their shops, but the Rogue—the King of Thieves—demands we give his subjects, the city's rushers, a chance for pardon, among other things, in exchange for a sum of coin."

Javert looked shocked and outraged. "You... _willingly_ collect _bribes_? And this is... _accepted_?" he said incredulously.

Beka gave him a funny look. "You mean you don't do it that way in France?"

"No!" Javert exclaimed. "Well... it is not _accepted_. _I_ do not participate, though others do, unofficially."

Beka shrugged and tossed her baton in the air catching it as it landed in her palm. "Maybe we do have some things to learn from this exchange." She spotted a minnow thief out of the corner of her eye and slid through the street crowd until her baton rested lightly on his back. The lad, who couldn't be older than ten, went still and dropped his hand. Beka shook her head slightly, then stepped back, letting the lad run away. She returned to Javert, who looked, if possible, even more stunned.

"You let him get away?" the French Dog demanded in a heated voice. "He was a thief!"

"Aye, but he didn't actually steal anything, and if he had it would have been only for coppers," she replied, a little puzzled at his reaction. "If he'd foisted anything, a few broken fingers, and he'd be on his way. No use spending more time before the magistrate for a minnow who's probably starving anyway."

Javert took a tiny step away from her, a look of almost horror in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Beka asked as she resumed walking.

"I have for thirty years kept the laws of France, unbending, unbreaking, upright," he said in a strangled voice. "And now I come here... to discover that you can change the laws to suit your whim."

He sounded offended, but there was nothing Beka could do. "Well," she said grimly. "I see we're not getting off to a good start here." She coughed, then asked him politely, "So... you arrest everyone who commits even the slightest offence?"

"Yes," Javert said stiffly. "Every man is born in sin, and each must choose his way. Those who choose the path that breaks the law must suffer."

"So you're highborn, then," Beka mused. "You must be, to have that kind of thinking."

"I was born in prison," the French Dog said, his voice curt and cold. "I chose my way, and became an officer of the law instead of a criminal."

"You see everything in black and white, then? No shades of gray?" She resisted adding, _Like in the real world?_ onto the end of that sentence.

"There is only the law and those who break it. Justice will come to all in the end," Javert said, sounding ridiculous.

They had almost arrived on Nipcopper, but there was time for one last question for this absurd Frenchman before the Happy Bag was collected. "Are you a priest?" Beka asked him.

"A priest?" Javert seemed surprised by this question. "No, I am not a priest. I am a police spy."

"Well, you sound like a priest of Mithros. A crazy priest, though."

He looked at her as if she was mad. "Mithros? Is this one of your pagan gods?"

"Mithros, god of law, the patron of Dogs," Beka said. "I don't pray to him, but we all respect him."

"I am a Christian," he said. Beka had heard vaguely of the Christian religion. They only worshiped one god, unlike most of the rest of the world. Strange, but so was every religion viewed by an outsider.

"Mm. Let's not get into religion, we haven't the time," she said. "Look. Here we are. The Court of the Rogue."

She unhooked her baton from her belt and advised her new partner to do the same.

Javert frowned. "My lodgings are just over there." He pointed to Mistress Trout's primary lodging house.

"Aye. I used to live there, too, but me and my man live in Upmarket now." They turned into the courtyard of the Dancing Dove. "Now Javert, don't make a fuss here. Rosto the Piper's the current Rogue, and he's an old friend of mine."

"You are _friends_ with thieves?" Javert demanded.

"Yes, now hush. I'll answer more questions later. We have a Happy Bag to collect."

Javert scowled, but shut up. Beka and the French Dog walked up to the inn's entrance. Beka nodded to the rushers standing watch, who nodded back. She knew them by sight, if not by name—while this was not her usual Happy Bag run, she visited Rosto, Kora, and Aniki often, and the guards knew who she was. She did see a few curious looks directed toward Javert, however.

The Dancing Dove was rather busy today, but not so busy that the barkeep didn't notice the two Dogs in the Rogue's Court.

"Hey! The Mastiff's about!" he called over to where Rosto and Aniki were sitting at the main table. That nickname was still used, though only occasionally. While Rosto had done away with most of the things that gave the top rushers airs, he had found himself a kingly-looking chair as a throne as the one exception. He looked up and smiled at Beka.

"Beka!" he called, waving for her to join them. She obeyed and pulled up a chair. Javert stood awkwardly behind her.

"Bored of the streets?" Aniki teased. "Finally decided to leave watch and become a rusher?"

"I'm here for the Happy Bag today, actually," Beka replied with a slight smile. She knew her tall Scanran friend only jested, but the thought of becoming a rusher still made her uncomfortable.

"Who's this?" Rosto asked with a nod toward Javert.

"_Bonjour, monsieur,_" Javert said with a curt nod. He could evidently tell who Rosto was. "I am Inspector Javert of France."

"He's here on that exchange program I told you about," Beka explained. "The one that sent Ersken off to France, remember?"

"Aye," Aniki said, nodding. "Kora's been moping since he left."

"I told her she should have gone with him," Beka sighed.

"She _does_ have customers," Rosto said, shrugging.

"Anyway." Beka cleared her throat. "The Happy Bag. Sorry I can't stay and chat today, but..."

"No, we're keeping you from your watch, it's our fault," Aniki said.

Rosto turned and made a gesture to one of the rushers at another table. The man stood up and went into the back room—Rosto's treasury.

"The usual amount?" he queried.

"Aye," she replied.

The money was soon handed over, and Beka stood up. Javert had observed this exchange with a constrained look of a mix of fury and horror. Beka quickly towed him out of the Dancing Dove so that when his explosion came, it would not be in a room full of rushers.

"How can you..." Javert muttered, seemingly lost for words.

"It's the way things are in Tortall," Beka said firmly. "Javert, you have to accept that Tortall and France are different. We have different customs, different expectations, different laws. Your stay here is going to be a misery if you freak out about everything I do."

Javert bowed his head, his mouth twisted in a grimace. "I will try to control myself," he grumbled.

"Good," Beka said.

* * *

_Point of view of Javert._

The watch seemed to last forever, even though it was in reality eight hours. Javert was astonished at how many criminals his new partner, Cooper, allowed to get away, but stuck to his words and didn't interfere much with her work. In a few days, perhaps, he would feel comfortable enough in Corus to do his own police work. Only two people were arrested that night of the twenty-ninth: a murderer and what Cooper called a 'foist'—a master thief.

Javert arrived at his lodgings late that night and deliberated.

Never had he seen someone so gray as Cooper. Javert had always viewed the world in black and white: black for the criminals, white for the law, those who kept it and those who enforced it. A few gendarmes back in Paris had strayed into the black zone, but they had either been caught and arrested or repented.

But here, in Tortall, there was no black and white; only shades of gray. It was accepted. Would he have to accept it as well?

Javert could not find an answer that suited him, and, troubled, quitted his thoughts and went to sleep.

* * *

_One week later._

Javert was nearing the end of his tolerance.

Rebakah Cooper was letting far too many criminals—_dangerous_ criminals like thieves and beaters—free. He had 'hobbled', as the locals put it, as many 'Rats' as Cooper would let him, but there were too many more criminals to cage. The Tortallan society needed to be cleansed. He had made up his mind about the 'Dogs'—they did indeed call themselves after curs—of Tortall: they were all crooked to the bone. They belonged in their jails just as much as the criminals they arrested did.

He was not getting his usual enjoyment out of patrolling the streets. It did have something to do with the unfamiliarity of the Lower City, but it was mostly because he couldn't arrest all the lawbreakers her saw. Well, he couldn't even back in Paris, but there he wasn't _prevented_ from doing so.

He was seriously considering breaking free from Cooper's reins and not listening to any Tortallan Dogs. But something held him back: he needed to behave himself. He represented France. And after all, he would be returning to Paris in a matter of weeks...

He walked alongside Cooper, trailing ever-so-slightly behind her, fingering his nightstick. They were on Koskynen, where many shops were located.

Cooper was busy dealing out blows to a lad who had thought torturing a kitten was a good idea. She wasted her time reprimanding gamins for a non-punishable offences when she could be arresting the numerous thieves flitting about the crowd in the street.

There was a shout of, "Thief! Thief!" A woman's voice. Javert narrowed his eyes, glanced at Cooper, and then ran off in the direction of the shout.

"_Dégager la route_!" Javert cried, slipping into French in his excitement. "Make way!"

Obediently, the citizens scurried out of his way. A baker was bellowing at a young man, maybe fifteen or sixteen years of age, who was holding a loaf of bread and looking abashed.

All at once, Javert was reminded of that infuriating ex-convict that kept escaping him: 24601, whose original offence had been stealing a loaf of bread. He made up his mind: no matter what Cooper said, he was hobbling this boy and sending him off to the galleys. If Tortall had galleys, he wasn't sure.

"Boy," he said harshly, "hand over the bread."

The boy, terrified, looked up, and leapt to his feet. He attempted to run, but Javert, quick as a snake, grabbed him and pulled him back.

The lad let the bread fall. The baker scooped it back up before it hit the ground and said to Javert, "Master Dog, please, he was jest hungry. Let him go, he don't need teh be—"

"I am the law, and the law is not mocked," Javert hissed, livid that so many were trying to stop him from arresting this boy. Behind him, he heard Cooper rush up and begin to protest.

"I have been mocked too long! I will arrest those who need arresting, including _voleurs comme cette jeune homme!_" Javert shouted, hobbling the boy. He had slipped back into French in his rage.

Cooper cried out, "Javert, stop!" It faded into the background. He didn't care. He felt her grab his arm, he shook her off and turned around to hit her away with his nightstick. She yelped in surprise.

He began to race away from the baker's shop. There was a sharp whistle blast behind him—so Cooper was calling the other Dogs, hmm? He didn't care.

Then there was the sharp rap of a weighted nightstick on his skull and...

* * *

_Excerpt from the official report of Guardswoman Rebakah Cooper concerning the incident of May 6, 251._

_...Javert went wild. I couldn't control him. The lad did not deserve the magistrate's justice, the baker had been returned his bread and after a sharp reprimand, that should have been the end of the matter. Javert hobbled him, despite my protests, and eventually began to drag him back to the kennel._

_Well, I couldn't stand for that, obviously, so there was only one thing to do. I gave him the nap tap and he went down. I released the boy, who fled, and enlisted the help of the bystanders to cart Javert off to the kennel._

_He woke up halfway there—I had been joined by Senior Guardsman Wulfric and Guardswoman Lee who were carting off their own Rats—demanding to be set free and, as we continued to deny his requests, slipping into French. None of us speak the language, we didn't know what he was saying. I had to gag and hobble him to shut him up._

_We arrived at the kennel and Watch Sergeant Goodwin took him into her guardianship. She has since requested his removal from the exchange program. He cannot continue to guard our laws in his current mental state._

_After Javert was delivered to the kennel, I went back on watch with Wulfric and Lee..._

* * *

_Excerpt from a letter from Lower City Evening Watch Sergeant Clara Goodwin to the Lord Provost of Tortall, Count Gershom of Yolen._

_My Lord Provost,_

_[pleasant formalities]...[thanks for service]...[other issues]..._

_...now we come to issue of the French exchange officer assigned to my watch, Inspector Javert. Master Javert has broached serious protocol, attacking an officer and arresting an innocent. It is requested that he is returned back to France, as he now enjoys the cage guards' hospitality, and no one is pleased by this arrangement._

_In other matters..._

* * *

_Letter from the Lord Provost of Tortall, Count Gershom of Yolen, to Monsieur Jean-Jacques Prieur, coordinator of the Tortallan-French police exchange program._

_Monsieur Prieur,_

_I apologize deeply for this inconvenience. Master Javert, one of your exchange officers, has caused violence and unrest in the city of Corus, and I have regretfully been forced to send him back to France prematurely. Please, do not allow Master Javert to return to Tortall. You may wish to suspend him from your ranks, temporarily, as to give him time to cool down after his outburst in Tortall._

_Sincerely,_

_Count Gershom of Yolen  
__Lord Provost of Tortall_

* * *

_Excerpt from the journal of Javert. Translated from the original French._

_...the exchange program, in the end, was just as I expected it to be: a terrible idea, doomed to fail. After trying to restore order to the Lower City, I was arrested and shipped back to France. I can't say I'm not glad to be back in Paris, where everyone respects me and listens to me._

_One thing bothers me, though... what did become of that bread thief?_

_Oh well, one lawbreaker at a time. If I still haven't caught 24601, I shouldn't bother myself about a Tortallan gamin._

* * *

_Excerpt from the journal of Guardsman Ersken Westover, Evening Watch, Jane Street Guardhouse, Corus, Tortall._

_...Well, France was quite an adventure! I rather enjoyed it, though speaking the language was a pain, and I swear the locals kept laughing at me behind my back._

_I don't think Beka enjoyed my absence, though. She seemed rather upset about her partner, someone called Javert—apparently, he _attacked _her when he wouldn't let him arrest a minnow!_

_Still, all's well that ends well, and that French Dog's gone for good now._

* * *

"Good riddance."

—Rebakah Cooper, upon hearing Javert had been sent back to France early


End file.
